
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS^ 

Cliap.1?^. copyright No. 

Slieif„.£l3-.S(b 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SONGS YSAME 



Dainty Volumes of Poetry 

Price, per volume, $1.25 

GOLDEN TREASURY OF AMERICAN 
SONGS AND LYRICS. 

Edited by F. L. Knowles. 

CAP AND GOV/N. First Series. 

Edited by J. L. Harrison. 

CAP AND GOWN. Second Series. 

Edited by F. L. Knowles. 

SONGS YSAME. 

By Annie Fellows Johnston and 
Albion Fellows Bacon. 

OUT OP THE HEART. 

Edited by J. W. Ghadwick. 



L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY, Publishers 

(incorporated) ^ 

196 Summer Street, Boston 




i.e4//2- 



SONGS YSAME 






BY , i 



ANNIE I FELLOWS 1 JOHNSTON 

^ AND '^ y 

ALBION FELLOWS BACON 




BOSTON 
L. C. PAGE AND COMPANY 

(incorporated) 
MDCCCXCVII 

6 




M? w Lj d. 2^' V 



^^\'\ 

(9'^ 



r^.:t:s<^ 



Copyright, iSg^, 

By L. C. Page and Company 
(incorporated) 



/ 






©fliotttal ^wss: 

Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co. 
Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 



TO 

(But mat^tt 
Mary Erskine Fellows 



CONTENTS. 



ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON 

*At a Tenement Window . 
*At Early Candle-lighting. 

Banditti 

t"BoB White" 

Echoes from Erin . . 

Elinor 

t Felipa, Wife of Columbus 
Interlude . . . . 

In this Cradle-life of Ours 
My Carol . . 

October 

On a Fly-leaf of " Afterwhiles' 

On a Fly-leaf of " Flute and Violin " 

Prelude (Now I Can Sing, etc.) 

Retrospection .... 

Spendthrift .... 

The Fickle Heart . 

The Legend of the Pansies 

* Through an Amber Pane . 



PAGE 

53 
i8 

65 
25 
47 
114 
60 

79 
74 
71 
88 
118 

115 
xiii 

45 

67 

64 

102 

50 



vu 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Trailing Arbutus loo 

'TwiXT Creek and Bay 62 

Voices of the Old, Old Days . . . -39 

ALBION FELLOWS BACON. 

A Madrigal 98 

t A Mood loi 

A Resolve 123 

A Song 55 

An Alpine Valley . . . . . ... 49 

An Old-time Pedagogue 31 

At Last . . . 125 

At Twilight ........ 90 

Chiaro-Oscuro. . 120 

Eclipse 57 

Elizabeth 113 

Grandfather 27 

Her Title-deeds 34 

Here and There . . . . . . -75 

In the Dark 58 

Inspiration 116 

Left Out 95 

Lost 69 

May-time 84 

Married . . . . . . . . .108 

Motherhood 109 

viii 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

" Oh, Dreary Day " 83 

On a Fly-leaf of Irving 117 

Ophelia iii' 

"Our Father" 97 

Prelude (We Cannot Sing, etc.) . . . xiii 

Requiem 112 

Silent Keys . . 41 

Spring's Cophetua 86 

Stranded 124 

Sufficiency no 

The Lighting of the Candles . . . .17 

The Milky Way 76 

The Old Bell 106 

The Old Church 29 

The Potter's Field ...... 93 

The Prophet . -91 

The Robber 70 

The Sea 107 

The Silent Brotherhood 66 

The Time o' Day 99 

The Tower of Babel ...... 104 

Winter Beauty 87 

When Youth is Gone 63 

When She Comes Home 122 

* By permission of YoutKs Companion. 
t By permission of Haurper's Weekly. 
X By permission of Frank Leslie. 

ix 



PRELUDE. 



"E camiot sing of life, whose years are brief 
Nor sad heart-stories tell, who know no grief 
Nor write of shipwrecks on the seas of Fate, 
Whose ship from out the harbor sailed but late. 
But we fnay sing of fair and sunny days, 
Of Love that walks in peace through quiet ways j 
And unto hi7n who turns the page to see 
Our simple story, haply it may be 
As when in some mild day i7i early spring. 
One through the budding woods goes wa^tdering j 
And finds, where late the snow has blown across, 
Beneath the leaves, a violet in the moss. 

1887. A.F. B. 



~\rO W I can sing of life, whose days are brief 
For I have walked close hand in hand with 
grief 
And I may tell of shipwrecked hopes, since jnine 
Sank just outside the happy harbor line. 
But still r/ty song is of those sunny days 
When Love was with me in those quiet ways. 
And unto him who turns the page to see 
That day''s short story, haply it m,ay be. 
The joy of those old ?nemories he feels : 
As 07ie who through the wintry twilight steals, 
And sees, across the chilly wastes of snow, 
The darke7ied sunset'' s rosy afterglow. 

i8g2. A.F.f. 

xiii 



PART I. 



SONGS YSAME 



t^e &iQ^tim of t^e Can^fes. 

"11 7" HENCE came the ember 

That touched our young souls' candles first 
with light; 
In shadowy years, too distant to remember, 

Where childhood merges backward into night? 

I know not, but the halo of those tapers 
Has ever since around all nature shone ; 

And we have looked at life through golden vapors 
Because of that one ember touch alone. 



17 



SONGS YSAME. 



'T^HOSE, who have heard the whispered breath 

Of Nature's secret " Shibboleth," 
And learned the pass-word to unroll 
The veil that hides her inmost soul, 
May follow ; but this by-path leads 
Through mullein stalks and jimson-weeds. 
And he who scorning treads them down 
Would deem but poor and common-place 
Those whom he'll meet in homespun gown. 
But they who lovingly retrace 
Their steps to scenes I dream about, 
Will find the latch-string hanging out. 
With them I claim companionship, 
And for them burn my tallow-dip, 
At early candle-lighting. 

To these low hills, around which cling 
My fondest thoughts, I would not bring 
An alien eye long used to sights 
Among the snow-crowned Alpine heights. 

i8 



AT EARLY CANDLE- LIGHTING. 



An eagle does not bend its wing 
To low-built nests where robins sing. 
Between the fence's zigzag rails, 
The stranger sees the road that trails 
Its winding way into the dark, 
Fern-scented woods. He does not mark 
The old log cabin at the end 
As I, or hail it as a friend, 
Or catch, when daylight's last rays wane, 
The glimmer through its narrow pane 
Of early candle-lighting. 



As anglers sit and half in dream 
Dip lazy lines into the stream, 
And watch the swimming life below, 
So I watch pictures come and go. 
And in the flame, Alladin-wise, 
See genii of the past arise. 
If it be so that common things 
Can fledge your fancy with fast wings ; 
If you the language can translate 
Of lowly life, and make it great. 
And can the beauty understand 
That dignifies a toil-worn hand. 
Look in this halo, and see how 
The homely seems transfigured now 
At early candle-lighting. 

19 



SONGS YSAME. 

A fire-place where the great logs roar 
And shine across the puncheon floor, 
And through the chinked walls, here and there. 
The snow steals, and the frosty air. 
Meager and bare the furnishings, 
But hospitality that kings 
Might well dispense, transmutes to gold, 
The welcome given young and old. 
Plain and uncouth in speech and dress. 
But richly clad in kindliness. 
The neighbors gather, one by one. 
At rustic rout when day is done. 
Vanish all else in this soft light, — 
The past is ours again tonight ; 
'Tis early candle-lighting. 



Oh, well-remembered scenes like these : 
The candy-pullings, husking-bees — 
The evenings when the quilting frames 
Were laid aside for romping games ; 
The singing school ! The spelling match ! 
My hand still lingers on the latch, 
I fain would wider swing the door 
And enter with the guests once more. 
Though into ashes long ago 
That fire faded, still the glow 



20 



AT EARLY CANDLE -LIGHTING. 

That warmed the hearts around it met, 
Immortal, burns within me yet. 
Still to that cabin in the wood 
I turn for highest types of good 
At early candle-lighting. 

How fast the scenes come flocking to 
My mind, as white sheep jostle through 
The gap, when pasture bars are down. 
And pass into the twilight brown. 
Grandmother's face and snowy cap. 
The knitting work upon her lap, 
The creaking, high-backed rocking-chair; 
The spining-wheel, the big loom where 
The shuttle carried song and thread ; 
The valance on the high, v/hite bed 
Whose folds the lavender still keep. 
Oh ! nowhere else such dreamless sleep 
On tired eyes its deep spell lays, 
As that which came in those old days 
At early candle-lighting. 

A kitchen lit by one dim light. 
And 'round the table in affright, 
A group of children telling tales. 
Outside, the wind — a banshee — wails. 



21 



SONGS YSAME. 

Even the shadows, that they throw 
Upon the walls, to giants grow. 
The hailstones 'gainst the window panes 
Fall with the noise of clanking chains. 
Till, glancing back, they almost feel 
Black shapes from out the corners steal, 
And, climbing to the loft o'erhead, 
The witches follow them to bed. 
The low flame flickers. Snuff the wick ! 
For ghosts and goblins crowd so thick 
At early candle-lighting. 

An orchard path that tramping feet 
For half a century have beat ; 
Here to the fields at sun-up went 
The reapers. Here, on errands sent, 
Small bare-feet loitered, loath to go. 
Here apple-boughs dropped blooming snow, 
Through garden borders gaily set 
With touch-me-nots and bouncing Bet ; 
Here passed at dusk the harvester 
With quickened step aud pulse astir 
At sight of some one's fluttering gown. 
Who stood with sunbonnet pulled down 
And called the cows. Ah, in a glance 
One reads that simple, old romance 
At early candle-lighting. 

22 



AT EARLY CANDLE - LIGHTING. 

One picture more. A winter day 
Just done, and supper cleared away. 
The romping children quiet grow, 
And in the reverent silence, slow 
The old man turns the sacred page, 
Guide of his life and staff of age. 
And then, the while my eyes grow dim, 
The mother's voice begins a hymn : 
" Sweet hour of prayer^ sweet hour of prayer 
That calls me from a world of care I " 
What wonder from those cabins rude 
Came lives of stalwart rectitude, 
When hearth-stones were the altars where 
Arose the vestal flame of prayer 
At early candle-lighting. 



No crumbling castle walls are ours. 
No ruined battlements and towers. 
Our history, on callow wings, 
Soared not in time of feudal kings ; 
No strolling minstrel's roundelay 
Tells of past glory in decay, 
But rugged life of pioneer 
Has passed away among us here ; 
And as the ivy tendrils grow 
About the ancient turrets, so 



23 



SONGS YSAME. 

The influence of its sturdy truth 
Shall live in never-ending youth, 
When simple customs of its day 
Have, long-forgotten, passed away 
With early candle-lighting. 



24 



BOB WHITE. 



JUST now, beyond the turmoil and the din 
Of crowded streets that city walls shut in, 
I heard the whistle of a quail begin : 
" Bob White ! Bob White ! " 
So faintly and far away falling 
It seemed that a dream voice was calling 

« Bob White ! Bob White ! " 
How the old sights and sounds come thronging 
And thrill me with a sudden longing ! 



Through quiet country lanes the sunset shines. 
Fence corners where the wild rose climbs and 

twines, 
And blooms in tangled black-berry vines, 

" Bob White ! Bob White ! " 
I envy yon home-going swallow, 
Oh, but swiftly to rise and follow — 

Follow its flight, 
Follow it back with happy flying, 
Where green-clad hills are calmly lying. 



25 



SONGS YSAME. 

Wheat fields whose golden silences are stirred 
By whirring insect wings, and naught is heard 
But plaintive callings of that one sweet word, 

" Bob White ! Bob White ! " 
And a smell of the clover growing 
In the meadow lands ripe for mowing, 

All red and white. 
Over the shady creek comes sailing, 
Past willows in the water trailing. 



Tired heart, 'tis but in dreams I turn my feet, 
Again to wander in the ripening wheat 
And hear the whistle of the quail repeat 

" Bob White ! Bob White ! " 
But oh ! there is joy in the knowing 
That somewhere green pastures are growing, 

Though out of sight. 
And the light on those church spires dying. 
On the old home meadow is lying. 



26 



GRANDFATHER. 



(Btanbfat^et. 

T T OW broad and deep was the fireplace old, 
And the great hearth-stone how wide ! 
There was always room for the old man's chair 

By the cosy chimney side, 
And all the children that cared to crowd 

At his knee in the evening-tide. 



Room for all of the homeless ones 

Who had nowhere else to go ; 
They might bask at ease in the grateful warmth 

And sun in the cheerful glow, 
For Grandfather's heart was as wide and warm 

As the old fireplace, I know. 



And he always found at his well-spread board 

Just room for another chair ; 
There was always rest for another head 

On the pillow of his care ; 
There was always place for another name 

In his trustful morning prayer. 

27 



SONGS YSAME. 

Oh, crowded world with your jostling throngs ! 

How narrow you grow, and small ; 
How cold, like a shadow across the heart. 

Your selfishness seems to fall, 
When I think of that fireplace warm and wide, 

And the welcome awaiting all. 



28 



THE OLD CHURCH. 



/"^LOSE to the road it stood among the trees, 

The old, bare church, with windows small and 
high, 
And open doors that gave, on meeting day, 
A welcome to the careless passer by. 

Its straight, uncushioned seats, how hard they 
seemed ! 

What penance-doing form they always wore 
To little heads that could not reach the text, 

And little feet that could not reach the floor. 

What wonder that we hailed with strong delight 
The buzzing wasp, slow sailing down the aisle. 

Or, sunk in sin, beguiled the constant fly 

From weary heads, to make our neighbors smile. 

How softly from the churchyard came the breeze 
That stirred the cedar boughs with scented wings. 

And gently Tanned the sleeper's heated brow 
Or fluttered Grandma Barlow's bonnet strings. 

29 



SONGS YSAME. 

With half-shut eyes, across the pulpit bent, 
The preacher droned in soothing tones about 

Some theme, that like the narrow windows high, 
Took in the sky, but left terrestrials out. 

Good, worthy man, his work on earth is done ; 

His place is lost, the old church passed away ; 
And with them, when they went, there must have 
gone 
That sweet, bright calm, my childhood's Sabbath 
day. 



30 



AN OLD-TIME PEDAGOGUE. 



Q LOWLY adown the village street 

With groping cane and faltering feet, 
He goes each day through cold or heat — 

Old Daddy Hight. 
His hair is scant upon his head, 
His eyes are dim, his nose is red, 
And yet, his mien is stern and dread — 
Old Daddy Hight. 



The village lads his form descry 

While yet afar, and boldly cry — 

(For bears are scarce and rods are high) 

" Old Daddy Hight ! " 
But when their fathers meet his glance, 
They nod and smile and look askance. 
He taught them once the Modoc dance — 

Old Daddy Hight. 



How long we cling to servitude. 

How long we keep the schoolboy's mood ! 



31 



SONGS YSAME. 

Still seems with awful power endued — 

Old Daddy Right. 
They feel a cringing of the knee, 
Those fathers, yet, whene'er they see 
Adown the walk pace solemnly — 

Old Daddy Right. 

Wide is his fame, of how he taught. 

And how he flogged, and reckoned naught 

The toils and pains that knowledge bought 

Old Daddy Right. 
Re had no lack of " ways and means " 
To track the loiterers on the greens ; 
He scorned all counterfeits and screens — 

Old Daddy Right. 

Ohjdire the day that brewed mishap! 
That brought to luckless back his strap, 
To hanging head his Dunce's cap — 

Old Daddy Right. 
No blotted page dared meet his eye ; 
The owner quaked and wished to die, 
When rod in hand, with wrath strode by — 

Old Daddy Right. 

Re helped them up the thorny steep 
Of wisdom's path with pain to creep, 

32 



AN OLD-TIME PEDAGOGUE. 

With vigilance that might not sleep — 

Old Daddy Hight. 
Now, down his life's long, slow decline, 
He walks alone at eighty-nine — 
The last of his illustrious line — 

Old Daddy Hight. 



33 



SONGS YSAME. 



get $iffe?®eebs. 

T NSIDE the cottage door she sits, 

Just where the sunlight, softest there, 
Slants down on snowy kerchief's bands, 
On folded hands and silvered hair. 



The garden pale her world shuts in, 

A simple world made sweet with thyme, 

Where life, soft lulled by droning bees, 
Flows to the mill-stream's lapsing rhyme. 



Poor are her cottage walls, and bare ; 

Too mean and small to harbor pride, 
Yet with a musing gaze she sees 

Her broad domains extending wide. 



Green slopes of hills, and waving fields. 
With blooming hedges set between. 

Through shifting veils of tender mist. 
Smile, half revealed, a mingled scene. 



34 



HER TITLE-DEEDS. 



All hers, for lovingly she holds 
A yellow packet in her hand, 

Whose ancient, faded script proclaims 
Her title to this spreading land. 



Old letters ! On the trembling page 

Drop unawares, unheeded tears. 
These are her title-deeds, her lands 

Spread through the realms of by-gone years. 



35 



INTERLUDES. 



37 



VOICES OF THE OLD, OLD DAYS. 



<^oice0 of f^e &f^, &fb ®a^0» 

/^H, voices of the old, old days, 

Speak once again to me, 
I walk alone the old, old ways 
And miss your melody. 
To-night I close my tired eyes 
And hear the rain drip slow, 
And dream a hand is on my brow 
That pressed it long ago. 

My thoughts stray through the lonely night 

Until I seem to see 

Home faces, in the firelight, 

That always smiled on me. 

Those shadows dancing on the walls 

Are not by embers cast. 

They are the forms my heart recalls 

From out the happy past. 

Forgotten is the gathering gloom. 
The night's deep loneliness, 
As round me in the silent room 
With noiseless tread they press. 



39 



SONGS YSAME. 

Though in the dark the rain sobs on, 
I heed its sound no more ; 
For voices of the old, old days 
Are calling as of yore. 



40 



SILENT KEYS. 



A S we would touch with soft caress the brow 

Of one who dreams, the spell of sleep to break, 
Across the yellowed keys I sweep my hand, 
The old, remembered music to awake ; 
But something drops from out those melodies — 
There are some silent keys. 

So is it V ^n I call to those I loved, 
Who blessed my life with tender care and fond : 
So is it with those early dreams and hopes, 
Some voices answer and some notes respond. 
But in the chords that I would strike, like these. 
There are some silent keys. 

Heart, dost thou hear not in those pauses fall 
A still, small voice that speaks to thee of peace ? 
What though some hopes may fail, some dreams be 

lost, 
Though sometimes happy music break and cease. 
We might miss part of heaven's minstrelsies 

But for these silent keys. 

41 



PART IL 



43 



RETROSPECTION. 



(getiro0:pecfton. 

'X*HE grandsire, in the chimney corner, takes 

The almanac from its accustomed place, 
And while the kettle swings upon the crane, 
And firelight flickers on his wrinkled face, 
Reviews the slow procession of the months ; 
And sees again upon the hills of green 
The gypsy Springtime pitch her airy tent 
Among the blossoms. Then the silver sheen 
Of harvest moon shines down on rustling corn 
Until the hazy air of Autumn thrills 
With sound of woodman's ax and hunter's horn, 
And darker shadows climb the russet hills. 



But while he ponders on the open page, 
The last sand in the hour-glass slips away. 
The end seems near of his long pilgrimage, 
And he would call the fleeting year to stay. 
But passing on, she goes — a sweet-faced nun — ■ 
To take within the Convent of the Past 
The veil of silence. Then the gates swing shut. 
And Time, the grim old warden, bolts them fast. 

45 



SONGS YSAME. 



No more can come again those halcyon days 
The Year took with it to its dim-lit cell ; 
But often at the bars they stand and gaze, 
When through the heart rings memory's matin-bell. 



46 



FXHOES FROM ERIN. 



(5c9oe0 §tom (Btin. 

A CROSS old Purple Mountain I hear a bugle call, 
And down the rocks, like water, the echoes leap 
and fall. 
One note alone can startle the voices of the peaks, 
And waken songs of Erin, whene'er the bugle speaks. 
They call and call and call, 
Until the voices all 
Ring down the dusky hollows and in the distance 
fall. 



Methinks, like Purple Mountain, the past will some^ 

times rise, 
And memory's call awaken its echoing replies. 
Within the tower of Shandon again the bells will sway, 
And follow, with their ringing, the Lee upon its way, 
And chime and chime and chime, 
Where ivy tendrils climb. 
Till bells and river mingle to sound the silvery 
rhyme. 



47 



SONGS YSAME. 

Again the daisied grasses beside the castle walls 
Will stir with softest sighing, to hear the wind's 

footfalls ; 
And through the moss-grown abbey, along Kil- 

larney's shore, 
The melodies of Erin will echo everrnore, 
And roll and roll and roll, 
Till spirit hands shall toll 
The music of the uplands unto the listening soul. 

Killarney^ Ireland. 



48 



AN ALPINE VALLEY. 



/^H, happy valley at the mountain's feet, 
^^^ If half your happiness you could but know ! 
Though over you a shadow always falls, 
And far above you rise those heights of snow. 
So far, your yearning love you may not speak 
With rosy flush like some high sister peak, 
Yet you may clasp its feet in fond embrace, 
And gaze up in its face. 

And sometimes down its slopes a wind will come 
And bring a sudden, noiseless sweep of snow. 
Like a soft greeting from those summits sent 
To comfort you below. 

What more ? Love may not ask too great a boon. 
Enough to be so near, though cast so low. 
Think that a sea had rolled between you twain 
If careless fortune had decreed it so, 
And you could only lie and look across 
To distant cloudy heights and know your loss. 
And see some favored valley, fair and sweet, 
Heap flowers at its feet 
Cham^ Switzerland. 



49 



SONGS YSAME. 



Z^touQ^ an ^mQct ^am. 

"D Y some strange alchemy that turns to gold 

The light that drops from gray and leaden skies, 
Though heavy mists the outer world enfold, 
'Tis always sunshine where Napoleon lies. 
No more an exile by an alien sea, 

Forgetful of the banishment and bane ; 
Now lies he there, in kingly dignity, 

His tomb a Mecca shrine beside the Seine. 
And there the pilgrim hears the story told, 
How Paris placed above her hero, dead, 
A window that should turn to yellow gold 
The light that on his resting place is shed. 
So on him falls, though summers wane. 
The sunshine of that amber pane. 

By some strange miracle, maybe divine, 

The sunlight falls upon the buried past 
And turns its water into sparkling wine, 

And gilds the coin its coffers have amassed. 
Could it have been those long-lost halcyon days 

Trailed not a cloud across our April sky ? 
Faltered we not along those untried ways ? 

Grew we not weary as the days went by ? 

50 



THROUGH AN AMBER PANE. 

Ah, yes ! But unreturning feet forget 

Rough places trodden in the long ago, 
Rememb'ring only paths with flowers beset, 
While pressing onward, wearily and slow. 
For Memory's windows but retain 
The sunshine of an amber pane. 

The little white, wind-blown anemone 

By one round dewdrop may be fully filled, 
And by some light-winged, passing honey-bee 

Its cup of crystal water may be spilled. 
So does the child heart hold its happiness : 

A drop will fill it to its rosy rim. 
It is not that these later days bring less, 

That joy so rarely rises to the brim ; 
It is because the heart has deeper grown, 

A fuller knowledge must its thirst assuage. 
Perhaps we would not deem those pleasures flown 

As bright as those which star the present age, 
Had not upon them long years lain 
The sunshine of an amber pane. 

The dust of dim forgetfulness piles fast 
Upon the chains that thralled us yesterday. 

So will it be when this day, too, is past, 
And in its arms we've seen it bear away 



SONGS YSAME. 

The cares that brooded in the tired brain ; 

The work that weighted down the weary hand ; 
The high hopes that we struggled to attain ; 

The problems that we could not understand. 
Washed of its stain, bereft of any sting, 

Seen through the window of the Memory, 
Perchance, a gentler grace to it may cling 

Than we may now think possible to see. 

For skies will gleam, though gray with rain, 
Like sunshine through that amber pane. 

We may not stand on Patmos, and look through 

The star-hinged portals where the great pearls 
gleam. 
No brush that unveiled beauty ever drew. 

Save one, that caught its shadow in a dream. 
So lest we falter, faithless and afraid, 

The Merciful, remembering we are dust, 
Reveals not heaven for which our hearts have prayed, 

But by a token teaches us to trust ; 
And day by day allows us to look through 

The window of the Memory, broad and vast, 
(Till jasper minarets rise into view) 

Upon the happy heaven of the past ; 
And gives, till purer light we gain, 
The sunshine of that amber pane. 



52 



AT A TENEMENT WINDOW. 



@t a tenement Winbo^yj. 

COMETIMES my needle stops with half-drawn 

thread 
(Not often though, each moment's waste means 

bread, 
And missing stitches leave the little mouths unfed). 
I look down on the dingy court below : 
A tuft of grass is all it has to show, — 
A broken pump, where thirsty children go. 

Above, there shines a bit of sky, so small 
That it might be a passing blue-bird's wing. 

One tree leans up against the high brick wall, 
And there the sparrows twitter of the spring. 
Until they waken in my heart a cry 
Of hunger, that no bread can satisfy. 



Always before, when Maytime took her way 
Across the fields, I followed close. To-day 
I can but dream of all her bright array. 
My work drops down. Across the sill I lean, 
And long with bitter longing, for unseen 
Rain-freshened paths, where budding woods grow 
green. 

53 



SONGS YSAME. 

The water trickles from the pump below 
Upon the stones. With eyes half shut, I hear 

It falling in a pool where rushes grow, 
And feel a cooling presence drawing near. 
And now the sparrows chirp again. No, hark ! — 
A singing as of some far meadow lark. 

It is the same old miracle applied 
Unto myself, that on the mountain-side 
The few small loaves and fishes multiplied. 
Behold, how strange and sweet the mystery ! 
The birds, the broken pump, the gnarled tree, 
Have brought the fullness of the spring to me. 

For in the leaves that rustle by the wall 
All forests find a tongue. And so that grass 

Can, with its struggling tuft of green, recall 
Wide, bloom-filled meadows where the cattle pass. 
How it can be, but dimly I divine. 
These crumbs, God given, make the whole loaf mine. 



54 



A SONG. 



" Home-keeping hearts are happiest." — Longfellow. 

■T^HERE will be distant journeyings enough 

To reach that Land beyond the ether's sea, 
To satisfy the veriest roaming heart, — 
Let me stay home with thee ! 

There will be new companionships enough 

In that bright spirit-life. Why should we flee 

So soon to alien hearts and stranger scenes ? 
I would stay home with thee. 

The heart grows homesick, thinking of the change 
When these familiar things no more shall be ; 

When e'en the thought of them, perchance, shall 
fade, — 
Let me stay home with thee. 

I would imprint upon my mind each scene. 

Each meadow path, and stream, and orchard-tree, 

Beloved since childhood, holy with our hopes, 
Sweet with the thoughts of thee. 

55 



SONGS YSAME. 

And each dear household place, let me learn all 
By heart, where I am wont thy form to see. 

Who knows what things shall pass ? If I may share 
A hearth in heaven -with thee ? 



S6 



ECLIPSE. 



/^ OD keep us from the sordid mood 

That shrinks to self-infinitude, 
That sees no thing as good or grand, 
That answers not the hour's demand, 
And throws o'er Heaven's splendors furled 
The shadow of our little world. 



57 



SONGS YSAME. 



3n tpe ®arft» 

T T ERE in the dark I lie, and watch the stars 

That through the soft gloom shine like tear- 
bright eyes 
Behind a mourner's veil. The darkness seems 
Almost a vapor, palpable and dense. 
In which my room's familiar outlines melt. 
And all seems one black pall that folds me round. 
Only a mirror glimmers through the dusk, 
And on the wall a dim, uncertain square 
Shows where a portrait hangs. Ah, even so 
Beloved faces fade into the past 
And naught remains except a space of light 
To show us where they were. 

How still it seems ! 
The busy clock, whose tell-tale talk was drowned 
By Day's uproarious voices, calls aloud. 
Undaunted by the dark, the flight of time, 
And through the halls its tones ring drearily. 
The breeze on tiptoe seems to tread, as though 
It were afraid to rouse the drowsy leaves. 
The long, dim street is quiet. Nothing breaks 
The dream of Night, asleep on Nature's breast. 

S8 



IN THE DARK. 

Hark ! Some one passes. On the pavement stones 
Each stealthy step gives back a muffled sound, 
Till the last foot-fall seems in distance drowned. 
So Death might pass, bent on his mission dread, 
Adown the silent street, and none might know 
What hour he passed or what he bore away. 
Ah, sadder thought ! So Life goes, unawares. 
Noiseless and swift and resolutely on, 
While the dumb world lies folded in the gloom, 
Unconscious and uncaring in its sleep. 
And towards the west, the stars, all silently 
Like golden sands in God's great hour-glass, glide 
And fall into the nether crystal globe. 



59 



SONGS YSAME. 



§dipa, Wife of Cofumfius. 

■]\ /T ORE than the compass to the mariner, 

Wast thou, Felipa, to his dauntless soul. 
Through adverse winds that threatened wreck, 

and nights 
Of rayless gloom, thou pointed ever to 
The North Star of his great ambition. He 
Who once has lost an Eden, or has gained 
A paradise by Eve's sweet influence. 
Alone can know how strong a spell lies in 
The witchery of a woman's beckoning hand. 
And thou didst draw him, tide-like, higher still, 
Felipa, whispering the lessons learned 
From thy courageous father, till the flood 
Of his ambition burst all barriers 
And swept him onward to his longed-for goal. 

Before the jewels of a Spanish queen 
Built fleets to waft him on his untried way. 
Thou gavest thy wealth of wifely sympathy 
To build the lofty purpose of his soul. 
And now the centuries have cycled by, 
Till thou art all-forgotten by the throng 

60 



FELIPA, WIFE OF COLUMBUS. 

That lauds the great Pathfinder of the deep. 

It matters not in that infinitude 

Of space, where thou dost guide thy spirit-bark 

To undiscovered lands, supremely fair. 

If to this little planet thou couldst turn 

And voyage, wraithlike, to its cloud-hung rim, 

Thou wouldst not care for praise. And if, per- " 

chance, 
Some hand held out to thee a laurel bough, 
Thou wouldst not claim one leaf, but fondly turn 
To lay thy tribute, also, at his feet. 



6i 



SONGS YSAME. 



"T^WIXT creek and bay 

We whisper to our white sails " stay ! 
Oh, Life, a little while delay ! 
'Twixt creek and bay." 

So loath to go 
From these calm shallows that we know, 
We fain would stay the year's swift flow, 

Nor onward go 

To banks more wide, 
Where seaward drawings of the tide 
Impel to deeper depths untried, 

Where Life grows wide. 

'Twixt creek and bay — 
The morning deepens into day, 
And richer freight we bear, alway, 

When in the bay. 



62 



WHEN YOUTH IS GONE. 



Wpen %otxtf^ is ^one. 

TT OW can we know when ycuth is gone, — 

When age has surely come at last? 
There is no marked meridian 

Through which we sail, and feel when past 

A keener air our faces strike, 

A chiller current swifter run; 
They meet and glide like tide with tide, 

Our youth and age, when youth is done. 



63 



SONGS YSAME. 



t^e Stcgfe f eatt 

/^ANST tell me, thou inconstant heart, 

What like unto thou art ? 
A gypsy wandering up and down 
Through April's green and Autumn's brown. 

Until the year is spent ; 
And then, when hills are white with snow, 
And brooks, ice-bound, have ceased to flow. 

No place to pitch his tent. 



64 



BANDITTI. 



(§anUtfu 

T TPON Life's lonely highway, robber bands 

Of grim-faced years seize with relentless hands 
Each traveler, and wrest from out his grasp 
The treasures that he fain would closer clasp. 
None can escape. Each year demands its toll, 
Till robbed of youth, we grope toward the goal, 
Halting and blind, of all but life bereft. 
And death claims that — the only boon that's left. 



65 



SONGS YSAME. 



/^N through the cloisters of eternity 

The years, like monks, in slow procession 

pass, 
Telling their rosary beads, the golden days. 
With penance prayers of dark and dismal 

nights. 
Hooded and cowled, with silence on they pass, 
Nor will they pause until their vesper rings 
A solemn curfew at the sunset hour, 
When all the fires of life are buried low. 
And all the worlds drop down upon their 

knees. 
To say a last mass ere the death of Time. 



(^ 



SPENDTHRIFT, 



T T E was a king one time, 

And they wrapped the ermine around him, 
And the bells rang out when they crowned him. 
Rang with a joyful chime. 



And he sat on a throne ! 
The wealth that a world could offer 
Was heaped in the New Year's coffer. 

For the world was his own. 



He was a spendthrift though, 
And the coins of his lavish giving 
Were the golden moments of living, - 

Coins that he squandered so. 



He is a beggar now. 
In the night and the storm he lingers, 
No gold in his prodigal fingers, — 

King with the uncrowned brow. 

67 



SONGS YSAME. 

Nothing to call his own ! 
His fortune scattered behind him ; 
Death empty-handed shall find him, - 

A New Year takes his throne. 



68 



LOST. 



r^HILDHOOD flits by with flowers in both its 

hands, — 
We know not why it leaves, nor when it goes ; 
But suddenly we miss some subtle grace, 
As perfume passes from a fading rose ; 
We scarce divine, yet somehow faintly feel 
In the soft air a far-blown breath of snows. 

Straying afar, unheeded and alone 

Upon life's highway 'mid the busy throng, 

Swept in its eager, restless race along 

To the great future, unexplored, unknown. 

The little child is lost. And when with haste 

The wanderer's footsteps through the streets are 

traced, 
They find a man with features pale and stern, 
But the lost child will nevermore return. 



69 



SONGS YSAME. 



t^e (gofifier. 



T~^0 you know why Time flies by so slow 

When we are sad and old ? 
Why he turns and waits as if loath to go 

On his journey cold ? 
Because from our coffers of hope and youth, 

Where we kept life's gold, 
He has stolen our treasures all, in sooth, 

From their sacred hold. 
He who came with a gift in hand 

Was a robber bold. 
He whose greeting was smooth and bland 

Was a wolf in the fold. 
And this is the reason that he goes by, 

When we're worn and old. 
So slowly, because he can scarcely fly 

With his weight of gold. 



70 



MY CAROL. 



"TPis the time when holly berries 

Grow red as the Yule-log's glow, 
And hearth and hall are decked by all 

With the green of the mistletoe. 
Time when the joy of giving 

Is felt at each fireside, 
And wings seek rest in the old home nest, 

For the time is Christmas-tide. 

Though only a carol singer 

With nothing of gold in store, 
And little to bring as an offering, 

I stand outside your door. 
Open ! This blessed morning 

Peace be to thee and thine ! 
Here to you all I gaily call 

A greeting from me and mine. 

Haply it may awaken 

Some joy that so long ago, 
On the frosty dawn of a Christmas gone. 

You found in your stocking toe. 



71 



SONGS YSAME. 

Though but an old, old carol, 
It bears love's myrrh and gold. 

And the frankincense of a joy intense 
That the angel hosts foretold. 



72 



CAROL. 



Listen ! The heralds proclaim Him f 
Follow ! A star leads the way / 

Oh, joy, in the City of David 
The Christ-child reigns to-day / 

I greet you this blessed morning. 

Peace be to thee and thine ! 
To the dear ones here be Christmas cheer, 

And the love of me and mine . 



73 



SONGS YSAME. 



** 3n t^is Ctabfe £ife of ^utrg/' 

npHE world swings slowly back and forth, 

From dawn to dusk, from dusk to dawn, 
And we forget the hand that rocks, 
But, cradle-like, the world swings on. 

A little while to stir and fret, 

Or sob with trembling lip 
Because the sunbeams we would grasp 

Through helpless fingers slip. 

A little while to moan, and start 
From fevered dreams, and weep. 

For still the cradle sways and swings 
Until we fall asleep. 

The broad earth's pillow is so soft 
To weary heads, and who can tell 

But through that sleep sound lullabies 
Of the white angel, Israfel ? 



74 



HERE AND THERE. 



T T OW must they sing, those angel choirs, 

Who breathe Heaven's pure, sweet air ! 
They need but waft it from their lips 
To make it music rare. 

Here on these chill, damp plains below, 

Where stifling vapors rise, 
We draw the heavy air of earth, 

And breathe it out in sighs. 



7S 



SONGS YSAME. 



TIP the steep heights whereon God's citadel 

Is set, the prayers of mortals to that bourne, 
For ages toiling, in the adamant. 

Across the sky a glittering path have worn. 



76 



INTERLUDE. 



77 



INTERLUDE. 



Interfuse. 

'\l 7" I THIN the pauses of the anthem falls a hush, 
And the deep organ's solemn voice goes on 
alone 

In a low undertone, 
As rain comes sometimes with a sudden sweeping 

rush, 
And then is still, save that it slowly drips and falls 
From leaves at intervals. 

So memory sings alone 
Between the busy hours when comes a lull, 
And naught is audible 

But its low undertone. 
So darkness drops between the days, an interlude 
When night's low sighing stirs the sleepy solitude. 
So, when the little cycle of this life is rounded, 
Before the spirit enters into life unbounded, 

It waits to hear, with bated breath, 

The solemn interlude of death. 



79 



PART III. 



8i 



OH, DREARY DAY 1 " 



^~\ H, dreary day, that had so late a dawn ! 

Oh, dreary day, so long, though early gone ! 
Fold thy gray mantle round thy form and go 
To find the lost sun, while Night comes on, 
Across the plain, with silent step and slow. 

I weary of thy dark, unsmiling mood, 

I weary of thy dull disquietude, 

And thy complaining voice that tells of pain. 

Not with the tempest's trumpet, but subdued 

In broken sentences of falling rain. 

Now, soft as household spirit, comes the Night 
And draws the curtains, fanning still more bright 
The cheerful fire, while for her gentle sake 
The tapers burst in bloom with yellow light, 
Like evening primroses just kissed awake. 



83 



SONGS YSAME. 



(gta^sj^ime. 



T^HE Spring steals through the city streets, 

Silent and shrinking, half afraid, 
As if there came, from woods and fields, 
Some timid, bashful, country maid. 

The lofty houses coldly frown. 

And coldly stares the stony street ; 

But here and there from out a cleft 
There springs a flower to kiss her feet. 

And here and there a crocus smiles 

A friendly greeting, or a spray 
Of blooming lilacs, fresh and sweet, 

Leans down and nods across her way. 

Till, reassured, she smiles and sings, 
And on she passes, glad and fleet, 

And little children at their play 

Look up to catch her glances sweet. 

Is it her robe's soft fluttering 
That gently fans the passer by ? 

84 



MAY-TIME. 

He only feels the freshened air, 

Nor knows the gracious presence nigh. 

But some sweet influence he feels, 

That charms care's gloomy shade away, 

And pours into his wakened heart 
The golden gladness of the May. 

So, like an angel visitant, 

She glides among the haunts of men. 
And faint hearts bound, and sad eyes smile, 

Because the Spring has come again. 



8S 



SONGS YSAME. 



Q HE came with garments scant and poor and thin, 

And white feet gleaming bare ; 
With pallid smiles where April tears had been, 
And snowflakes on her hair. 

Oh, never — Winter thought — such gentle look 

In all the land was seen ! 
From his gray locks the diadem he took 

And crowned her as his queen. 

And now, in silken robes and gems arrayed, 
P'air Spring reigns in his stead. 

Upon his throne she sits, the beggar maid — 
" Cophetua " is dead. 



86 



WINTER BEAUTY. 



"\ irHEN I go through the meadows brown, 

Where stand the tall weeds, sere and dead, 
Think you I find no beauty there, 

Since Summer through the fields has fled? 

The edges of the frozen stream, 

Whose quiet waters late were crossed 

By shadows of the bending fern, 
Are fair with fringes of the frost. 

Wherever cowslips crowded thick, 

Or banks of buttercups would be, 
A host of airy forms in white, 

Like ghosts of flowers returned, I see. 

It may be clustered flakes of snow, 
Or frozen dew still glistening there, 

But still it seems as if there came 
A rare, strange odor through the air. 



87 



SONGS YSAME. 



A CROSS the stubble fields the lazy breezes pass, 
From Autumn orchards sloping southward in 
the sun, 
Where dropping from the low-hung branches, one by 

one, 
The apples hide in tangles of the wind-blown grass, 
A warm, sweet scent of mellow fruit fills all the air, 
And faintly over hills and hollows comes the cry 
Of some shrill bluejay, and his mate's far-off reply. 
Like Ruth, the winds will go a-gleaning, by and by. 
And garner in the leaves till all the woods are bare. 

But now my boyhood's love has come again to me, 

October — in her royal red and gold arrayed! 

She comes with glowing cheeks, my dusky Indian 

maid. 
And all the world seems bright because so bright is 

she. 
Unto her lips the wild grapes hold their spicy wine. 
Persimmons, sweet and golden with an early frost. 
Drop at her feet; and where the narrow creek has 

crossed 

88 



OCTOBER. 

The woods, and in the ferns and flag its way has 

lost, 
Blood-red the corals of the dog-wood berries shine. 

And thus she comes, my Love I loved when I was 

young ! 
We wander for a little while across the hills. 
And, as of old, her sunny presence warms and fills 
My heart. But like a lute with one string left un- 
strung, 
When I would sing again the song ol other years. 
Something is lost. The harmony is incomplete. 
And though the same old melody I still repeat. 
One alto note of joy is gone that made it sweet, 
And something trembles in the Autumn haze like 
tears. 



89 



SONGS YSAME. 



A TINY bird flits through the twilight brown, 
When sunset dreams make all the garden fair, 
Whose soft notes fall into the quiet air 
Like olive leaves on waters smooth dropped down. 
Emblems of rest, when floods of care do cease. 
Into my heart, as well, they fall and float, 
An olive leaf each faint and dreamy note — 
I recognize their sign, and feel at peace. 



90 



THE PROPHET. 



$9e ^top^tt 



"T^ARKNESS and silence, such as only fall 

At midnight, wrap the sleeping hamlets all ; 

No life in all the dim world seems to be. 
Then suddenly, 

Across the hills, far off and faint, I hear 

Sound through the dark, as through a dream, the 
call 

(How strange it seems ! ) of some bold chanticleer, 

(Half in my sleep I hear that clarion ring, 
With distant calls, like echoes, answering ; 
And, as at war's alarum, soldiers leap 

From guarded sleep 
And seize their arms, and hasten from their tents, 
So, at this sound, my drowsy senses spring. 
Alert to man the mind's dark battlements.) 

To tell night's mid-hour tolls no startled bell ; 
Only thy voice is heard, brave sentinel. 
Who, like the ancient watchman on the towers, 
Calls forth the hours. 



91 



SONGS YSAME. 

And to the wistful questioners, who see 

No gleam through pain's long vigil, dost foretell 

" The morning cometh," oft and cheerily. 

How canst thou know when, weary with- his race, 
The Day turns back, his pathway to retrace ? 
Canst thou the maiden Dawn's light footsteps hear, 

Approaching near ? 
Or dost thou stand in converse with the skies, 
And know what time she leaves her hiding-place 
By joyful flashes of their starry eyes ? 

Thou art a prophet, like to those of old, 
Who in the darkness sat, but firm and bold 
Looked with undaunted eyes towards the dim 

Horizon's rim, 
And thrilled with faith of waiting ages born, 
That soon from out the Night's strong prisonhold, 
Should burst the golden glory of the Morn. 



92 



THE POTTER'S FIELD. 



t^e ^oUcfs Siefb. 

JUST outside of the noisy town, 
Half through thicket and wood revealed, 
Hemmed about by a wall of stone. 
Wide it lieth, the Potter's Field. 

Brambles wander across the grass, 
Vines creep over the broken wall, 

Bindweeds blossom, and here and there 
Stands a waif of the forest tall. 

There no columns of gleaming white 
Mark the dust that is sacred still ; 

Swings the gate on its rusty hinge — 
All may enter and roam at will. 

Who should hinder the ruthless hand. 
Who protect from a vagrant's tread ? 

Guard the urns of the rich and great — 
No one cares for the pauper dead ! 

Outlawed felon and sinless child 
All find room in the Potter's Field. 



93 



SONGS YSAME. 

There lies a Judas who sold his Lord, 
Here a Mary, His pity healed. 

Who could know of the shame and sin 
Safely under the sod concealed ? 

Weary burdens of want and grief, 
Laid away in the Potter's Field. 

Who could guess ? — for as swift and light 
O'er it the feet of the seasons go ; 

Summer hides it with grace of flowers, 
Winter spreads it with folds of snow. 

Rains weep over the lonely mound. 

Sunlight lingers, and swift shades pass ; 

Tender hands of the gentle wind 

Smooth the knots of the tangled grass. 

What though hallowed by Death alone, 
Rest unbroken the sod doth yield ; 

Peace is here, for His constant watch 
God doth set o'er the Potter's Field. 



94 



LEFT OUT. 



£eft 4>txt 

'VXTELL he knew that his clothes were poor 
He was common, he hupibly thought ; 
Child as he was, he could understand 
Why he was slighted and never sought. 

Yet could he help it, — his mother gone, — 
Help the weight of his father's shame ? 

Hardest sentence of childish law : 
Blaming innocence not to blame. 

It was hard when the children played 

All together, to be left out, — 
Stand aside, with a stinging sense 

That 'twas he that they laughed about. 

Thoughtless children, they felt no wrong, — 
Pushed him out of the ring at play. 

No one heard how his voice was choked. 
No one cared when he stole away. 

No one saw how he crept at last 

Through the gate and the grasses deep, 

95 



SONGS YSAME. 

Past the wall to a lonely grave 
Where his mother was laid asleep. 

Could she feel in her narrow bed, 

Wee, cold hands, as they groped about - 

Feel the tears that were dropped because 
Even her grave had left him out ? 



96 



"OUR FATHER." 



T HAVE no part with all the great, proud world : 

It cares not how I live, nor when I die ; 
But every lily smiling in the field, 
And every tiny sparrow darting by, 
Claims kinship with me, mortal though they be, — 
The One who cares for them doth care for me. 



97 



SONGS YSAME. 



WOODBINE. 

'T^HE wild bee clings to it 

Most fond and long. 
The wild bird sings to it 

Its sweetest song. 
The wild breeze brings to it 

A life more strong. 

So all things lend to thee 
Some charm, some grace. 

The world's a friend to thee. 
In love's embrace. 

All hearts do bend to thee, 
In thy queen's place. 



98 



THE TIME O' DAY. 



$5e time 0* Wat* 

T F I should look for the time o' day 

On the rose's dial red, 
I would think it was just the sunrise hour, 
From the flush of its petals spread. 

And if I would tell by the lily-bell, 

I would think it was calm, white noon ; 

And the violet's blue would tell by its hue 
Of the evening coming soon. 

But when I would know by my lady's face, 

I am all perplexed the while ; 
For it's always starlight by her eyes, 

And sunlight by her smile. 



99 



SONGS YSAME. 



'T*HERE may be hearts that lie so deep 

'Neath griefs and cares that weigh like drifted 
snow, 
That love seems chilled in endless sleep, 

And budding hopes may never dare to grow. 

Yet under all, some memory 
Trails its arbutus flowers of tender thought,— 

All buried in the snow maybe, 
Still with the sweetest fragrance fraught. 



100 



A MOOD. 



C OMETHING has made the world so changed, 

Something is lost from field and sky, 
And the earth and sun are sadly estranged, 

And the songs of Nature seemed turned to a cry. 
Yet I heard my blithe little neighbor tell 
How fair is the spring to see. 

Ah, well, — 
Perhaps the change is in me. 

Something has gone from your smile, sweetheart ; 

Something I miss from your look, your tone. 
Though you stand quite near, we are still apart. 

You may clasp me close, but I feel alone. 
Yet over and over your love you tell, 
And as you say, it must be. 

Ah, well, — 
Perhaps the change is in me. 



lOI 



SONGS YSAME. 



$^e feegenb of f^e ^mzkB. 

/^NE night in Fairyland, when all the court 

Held carnival to welcome in the June, 
And to the wind-harp's music, flying feet 

Were dancing on the rose leaves night had strewn; 
The naughty Puck crept up the castle stair. 

And called the sleeping princes from their bed ; 
And with their royal pages following, 

Away the tricksy little fairies sped. 
Mounted on snowy night-moths, off they raced. 

Startling the gnomes, asleep within the shade 
Of gloomy forests, with their merry cries, 

As at forbidden games all night they played. 
But when at sunrise blew an elfin horn. 

Mischievous Puck was nowhere to be seen, 
The disobedient princes stood forlorn ; 

Like dew-drops fell their tears on grasses green. 
For fairy children, not within the bounds 

Of Queen Titania's realm at morning's dawn. 
Change into blooming flowers where they stand. 

And bloom there till the summer time is gone. 

Now, where the little princes played all night 
In robes of royal purple and of gold, 

I02 



THE LEGEND OF THE PANSIES. 

The flowers we call pansies sprang in sight, 

And round them stood the little pages bold, 
In liveries of yellow, blue, and white ; 

While upward through the east the great sun 
rolled. 
Then some, repentant, sadly drooped their heads ; 

Some turned their saucy faces to the sky ; 
But now they all alike must wait the day 

When they can bid the summer time good-by. 
Sometimes, when bees upon their busy rounds 

Stop to deliver some sweet message sent 
From Fairyland, the thoughtful faces smile 

And seem to grow a little more content. 
When cooling shadows creep along the grass. 

And mother birds are twittering lullabies 
To sleepy nestlings, then the south winds pass, 

And close with fingers soft the pansies' eyes. 
Upon the wings of dreams they're borne along 

To loving arms that rock them all the night, 
And fairy voices soothe their sleep with song, 

Till they are waked by kisses of the light. 



103 



SONGS YSAME. 



$8e toVitt of (gafiei 

/~\NCE, many centuries ago, 

Men tried to build a tower so high 
That rising upward, round on round, 
Its pinnacle should reach the sky. 

And as they toiled and built and dreamed and planned, 
What hopes went upward with the rising stone ! 

That daring feet ere long should mount and stand 
Upon the golden stairway to the throne. 

And then a dire confusion fell 
Upon the workers, building there. 
Men called and shouted each to each 
With strange, uncomprehended speech, 
And what it meant no one could tell ; 
So they left building in despair. 

Yet in their hearts still lived the hope that they 
Might scale the ramparts of the sky some day. 

Sometimes our souls expand and glow 
With holy visions bright and pure ; 

104 



THE TOWER OF BABEL. 

But when from these deep vales below 

We proudly try to climb and reach 

With clumsy masonry of speech, 

And rounds of rhyme that shall endure, 

That sky-born thing, that heavenly theme, 

Touched only by a prayer or dream, 

A swift confusion o'er us flies. 

And sudden chills our hands benumb. 

Our minds are blurred, our tongues are dumb. 

The vision fades away and dies. 

Yet still we dream that song some day may be 
Rung through the arches of Eternity. 



105 



SONGS YSAME. 



t^e &^ (§dt 

T^HE vines have grown so thick and twined so 
strong, 
With clinging hold, about the bell that swings 
In the old tower, that now it never rings. 

No one has heard its voice for seasons long. 

Sit by me on the broken belfry stair, 

And I will tell the simple tale to you 

Of those whose graves through yonder arch you 
view, 
Scattered about the churchyard, here and there. 

Ah me ! How closely memory's tendrils twine 

About the heart, and choke the words that spring. 
It only throbs, the touch half-answering. 

Like this old bell, held speechless by the vine. 



io6 



THE SEA. 



T7OREVER, like a heart that knows no peace, 

Like one who wanders weary to and fro 
About the earth, but finds no resting-place, 
The sweeping tides of ocean ebb and flow. 

Like a discarded lover who entreats 
For favor still, and will not be denied, 

Up to the beach, with soft, caressing touch 
And tearful broken whispers, steals the tide. 

But still repulsed, it slow and sad withdraws, 
Yet at the dear one's feet its treasures lays. 

And turns again, to wail its sorrows out 

Through all the hopeless nights and dreary days. 



107 



SONGS YSAME. 



T T is such a little while 

From the time the fledgling tries 
To tip from the edge of the nest to the bough, 
Then lifts its wings and flies. 

Till it sits in its own wee nest, 

Surprised out of growth or ken. 
And half-way feels that in some strange way 

It is learning to fly again. 



io8 



MOTHERHOOD. 



OR two dear heads of bronze and amber, 
For baby eyes of blue and brown, 
For two who cling, and kiss, and clamber, 
And on my shoulder nestle down. 



F 



All little hearts are dearer to me. 
All little faces sweet and bright, 

All childish tears and woes undo me. 
And I would heal them all to-night. 



109 



SONGS YSAME. 



'X*HE bird that sings one only strain, 

To tell his passion o'er and o'er, 
Can feel as much of joy or pain 
As if he knew a thousand more. 



And thou, sweet maid, whose gentle thought 
In smiles or tears finds present vent. 

What feeling could thy soul be taught. 
Or who has words more eloquent ? 



1 10 



OPHELIA. 



/^^ALM dost thou lie in wave-swept resting-place. 

No more the glances of the haughty Dane 
Can fill thy gentle breast with longing vain. 
The waves that stilled thy heart have drowned thy 

pain, 
And washed the sorrow from thy sweet, pale face, 
Ophelia. 

Thine be the violets, but his the rue. 

Though hope should sleep, and deep regret should 

wake, 
Thy clasped hand from Death's he could not take ; 
The spell on those mute lips he could not break. 
What more with life and love hast thou to do, 
Ophelia ? 



Ill 



SONGS YSAME. 



^ 



C LEEP, thou, whom Care so long oppressed. 

Care whispers by thy couch no more. 
Kind Death has shut the outer door ; 
None can disturb thee, — sleep and rest. 

Thy hands are folded on thy breast 
That throbs with Life's deep pain no more. 
Though Love waits grieving by thy door, 
He cannot enter, — sleep and rest. 



112 



ELIZABETH. 



Elizabeth, 
Thou comest a refreshing breath 
From meadows green, where morning stays, 
To those who bear the noon-tide blaze. 

Elizabeth, 
Thou couldst look in the eyes of Death, 
Undaunted, did he promise thee 
Some bright new scene of mirth or glee. 
I cannot think that time will gray 
That sun-bright head, nor bear away 
One dimple in those rose-cheeks hid ; 
Sure he were daring if he did. 



113 



SONGS YSAME. 



(Eftnot. 

T N that shadow-land, where the Sisters three 

Are weaving the web of destiny, 
There floated once through the fateful gloom 
A thread of sunshine, that gleamed upon 
The thread of a life from the distaff drawn, 
And mingling, they passed to the busy loom. 
The wondering Parcea looked and smiled, 
As the light grew into the soul of a child. 
And in and out and through devious ways, 
They wove it in with the woof of days. 
But they said on earth (who knew not the Fates) 
" As the lily's chalice holds the dew, 
So in her heart, at the morning's gates, 
She caught the sunshine, when she came through." 



114 



ON A FLY-LEAF OF "FLUTE AND VIOLIN." 



&n a Sf^^feaf of '' §fuU atvb ^iofin/* 

A MASTER-HAND hath swept 

Life's violin and flute. 
For him they laughed and wept 
When others found them mute. 

From his high altitude 

He catches, fine and clear, 
The notes that might elude 

A less discerning ear. 

Transposing to a lower key 
The dream-song that he hears, 

He sets his heavenly melody 
To human smiles and tears. 



"5 



SONGS YSAME. 



'impitaiion. 

'T~^HE singer walks by wood and rill, 

By town and stately river, 
And varied scenes his vision fill, 
And make his pulses quiver. 

But when his song comes borne across 
On winds from dreamland blov/ing, 

We cannot tell what mystic touch 
Has set his chimes a-going. 

We hear the robins in his rhyme, 

We see the orchards drifted 
With crests of bloom that glimmer white 

When mists of tears are lifted. 

A hundred tunes seem intertwined 

To mingle in his singing, 
When but a single rose, perhaps, 

Has set his fancy winging. 



ii6 



ON A FLY-LEAF OF IRVING. 



^n a Sf^sj£eaf of 3t>?in5, 

VyELCOME art thou, O singer! 

If thou dost know a song 
That makes the long eve shorter 
Because its joys are long. 
Welcome art thou, tale-bearer, 
If thou canst bear away 
Part of the cares that burden 
The dull and dreary day. 



117 



SONGS YSAME. 



&n a Sf^^feeat of ^iiti^'^ 

T INTO him alone who strays 

Sometimes through the yesterdays, 
Lingering long in wood and field, 
Is the meaning all revealed 
Of these songs, Adown the rhymes 
Runs a path to bygone times ; 
But 'tis found by those alone, 
Who the fresh green hills have known, 
And have felt the tender mood 
Of the country solitude ; 
Who through lanes of pink peach blooms 
Used to see the lilac's plumes 
Nodding welcome by the door 
Where the home-folks come no more. 
Blest the singer, then, who leads 
Back again through clover meads, 
'Til old scenes we seem to see. 
Fair as once they used to be. 
Who can call from years long gone, 
Friends we trusted, leaned upon ; 

ii8 



A FLY-LEAF OF RILEY'S "AFTER - WHILES. 

For whose sake we learned to bless 
Toilworn hands and homespun dress. 
As he sings of them, and thus 
Wafts the pure air back to us 
Of the fields, there comes again 
Childhood's faith in God and man. 



119 



SONGS YSAME. 



C OMEHOW I love to look at the picture I made 

of her, 
Work of an idle time, the summer of life's long year ; 
For as I stand and gaze, dreaming of those lost 

days, 
Almost it seems to me I can see her sitting here. 

That is the way she sat, with her head a trifle 

raised, 
Looking thoughtfully out at a scene I could never 

see. 
Delicate color of rose dawning and dying down. 
Flushing the rare sweet face as she listened or spoke 

to me. 

Whitest light of the sky I showered on her upturned 

brow. 
Gathered the darkest shades and brushed them into 

her hair, 
Thinking the while I worked of the law that always 

sends 



120 



CHIARO-OSCURO. 

The deepest shadows to follow the high lights every- 
where. 

Now as I sit and gaze at the dream on the canvas 
caught, 

Sadly the thought comes back, to torture with un- 
belief — 

Why must it always be that the strong white light of 
love 

Is followed forevermore by the deepest shadow of 
grief ? 



121 



SONGS YSAME. 



n3?5^n ^^e Came gome. 

" When she comes home again, a thousand ways 
I fashion to myself the tenderness 
Of my glad welcome." Riley. 

HEN she comes home," I thought with throb- 
bing heart, 

That danced a measure to my mind's refrain. 
Again from out the door I leaned and looked, 
Where she should come along the leafy lane. 
And then she came. — I heard the measured sound 
Of slow, oncoming feet, whose heavy tread 
Seemed trampling out my life. I saw her face. 
Then through my brain a sudden numbness spread. 
The earth seemed spun away, the sun was gone. 
And time, and place, and thought. There was no 

thing 
In all the universe, save one who lay 
So still and cold and white, unanswering 
Save by a graven smile my broken moan. 
She had come home, yet there I knelt alone. 



122 



A RESOLVE. 



np*HE fields of thought are plowed so deep, 

So carefully are tilled, 
That all the granaries of the world 

With plenteous store are filled. 
Unless I deeper plow and sow, 

What sheaf, then, can I bring? 
So like the black-bird in the field, 

I'll eat the wheat and sing. 



133 



SONGS YSAME. 



\1 /"E found a wreck cast up on the shore, 

Battered and bruised, and scarred and rent, 
And I spoke aloud, " Here was worthless work. 
And a barque unfit to the sea was sent." 

But he said, my friend, in his gentle mood, 

" Nay, none may say but the barque was good. 

For none can tell of the seas it sailed, 

Of the waves it braved and the storms withstood." 

Then we spoke no more, but I mutely mused 
And thought, oh, heart and oh, life of man 
That we find wrecked ! we may never know 
How brave you were when your course began. 



124 



AT LAST. 



(^i £a0t 

HAT will you give me, O World, O World! 
If I run in the race and win ? 
Will you give me a fame that can never fade, 
Will you give me a crown that will never rust. 
Can you save my soul from the pall of sin. 

Can you keep my heart from the dust ? 

What will you give me, O Earth, O Earth ! 

If I fight in the fray and win? 
More than you gave those kings, who lay 

Ages past in forgotten clay ? 
Can you give me more than the grave shuts in, 

Or the years can bear away ? 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. 

Fame will fade and crowns will rust. 

Give me, O Earth, but your true embrace, 
When the battle is lost or won. 

Hide me away from the day's white face, 
From the eye of the dazzling sun. 

125 



SONGS YSAME. 

So I may lay my head on your breast, 

Forget the struggle and be at rest ; 

Forget the laurels that fade away, 

The love that lasts but a wild, brief day ; 

Forget it all, on your bosom pressed, 
Forever at rest — at rest ! 



126 



LIBRARY OF 




